Winter creeps across Loess like a blanket. Castile had noted the declining temperatures as the wind kissed his skin; it was only a matter of time before the first frost glittered their hills like diamonds. Only weeks prior did he breathe and note the multitude of women in season; he withdrew into solitude during that brief period.

He stirs now, however, awoken by the singing of birds overhead. His mismatched eyes blink slowly as a sheet of sunlight slants through an opening in the clouds, illuminating him. He grumbles. The winter chill fazes him not – an inner fire incubates him – as he lies contently wrapped in a large, feathered wing. Another groan. A twitch of his ear. A deep breath. Every one of his senses sluggishly comes to life, forced into reality with the arrival of morning. A yawn. A stretch.

(Eat)

When Castile rises to his feet, he shakes away the debris that always seems to find him and cling to him.

(Eat)

It hisses, that creature inside him, but his expression doesn’t betray what has become a daily struggle. A churning in his gut is a reminder of how it’s very much alive now, but still desperately rattling the bars of its cage. No, he whispers to himself through gritted teeth, before moving forward to a small patch of yellowing grass. Castile grazes where he can, desperate to keep the monster subdued. Periodically, he spares a glance to where there are scattered numbers of horses, often wondering why Ivar chose him.